coffee. His agile brain had come up with the only answer to eliminating Tweed. He knew that Tweed was formidable. Picking up his case, always kept packed for a swift departure, and sliding back the bolt of the interconnecting door, he opened the door, spoke quietly to Max, standing by a window. `We are leaving. When will you be ready?'
Now, sir. Immediately.'
Settled beside Max in the second-hand Ford he spoke as soon as they were in open country. The glaring sun shone low through the windscreen. Calouste pulled down his visor a moment after Max had taken the same precaution. `We are moving,' Calouste informed his henchman, `to one of the houses I own outside the village of Leaminster on the borders of Sussex and Hampshire. It's ten miles away from Hengistbury Manor and The Forest.'
He produced a map to hand to Max, who shook his head. 'Just show me. Some of those people who bought second homes out here assume there'll be no traffic, drive in the middle of the road.Young macho types.'
He glanced at the map Doubenkian was holding out for him. His chief's small thumb was pointed to Leaminster, and Max nodded. `I can drive on a quiet roundabout route. Be there by lunchtime.' `I have solved the Tweed problem,' Calouste said as he struggled to refold his map. 'Every man had his weak point. Even a man of Tweed's eminence. That is the lever we will use. As we successfully did in Vienna. You will lure Paula Grey out of SIS HQ, grab her, then you phone Tweed. Inform him you have the Grey girl, that she will be tortured for three hours, then murdered unless he comes along within an hour to rescue her. Before you phone him you start the torture, then put her on the phone so he can hear her scream.'
As he explained his plan Calouste was still trying to fold the map. He therefore failed to observe the grim expression which appeared on Max's face.
7
The Park Crescent office was occupied only by Monica, Tweed and Paula when, in the late afternoon, the call came through. Monica waved to Paula. `It's for you. A Mr Evelyn-Ashton. Posh voice.. `Yes?' said Paula. `Miss Paula Grey?' `Speaking. Who is this?' `Evelyn-Ashton. You won't know me but I have information for you concerning a certain gentleman of Armenian origin.'
The voice was very Old Etonian, bland and superior without being condescending. Paula glanced over at Tweed, who was immersed in his files. `Well, tell me,' Paula replied. `Not over the phone. Too dangerous. Can we meet?' `Where? And when?' `Now. At the Duke's Head Hotel. In Mayfair, off Tiverton Street. I'm tall, well-built, wearing a suit with a fake grey rose in the buttonhole. Thick brown hair, clean-shaven. Are you on?' `Be there in fifteen minutes, roughly.' `I'll be drinking champagne. Moderately…'
Paula had kept her voice low, knowing Tweed wouldn't like an assignation. Paula stood up, put on her leather windcheater, checking her Walther in the hip pocket. While bending to pull up her ankle boots she checked her Beretta tucked inside her leg holster was firmly in position. `Who was that?' Tweed asked without looking up. `A firm that's altering a dress for me…'
As she drove towards Mayfair, Paula's mind was in a whirl. Was it possible this stranger she was going to meet did have information about Calouste Doubenkian? On previous cases she had known lucky breaks which came when least expected.
Inside the well-appointed bar of the Duke's Head, Max was already waiting for his visitor. He always arrived early for appointments. It gave him time to check the surroundings. The bar was spacious and oblong, the narrower side being the frontage.
He was the only occupant at that hour and had chosen to sit near the door. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne stood by his side and two glasses were set before him. In his large hand was concealed a small tasteless capsule for her drink. It would swiftly make her feel very sleepy.
Max's mind was in a turmoil. At the Green Dark Hotel he had not had a wink of sleep during the nights he had spent there. Into his mind had frequently crept a memory of the girl he had thrown into the marsh. He had imagined the horror of her opening her mouth to scream. She would have sucked in that foul ooze, then choked on it. He had felt sickened and still did.
It had all happened so quickly. Accustomed to obeying a command from Doubenkian, he had acted on a reflex. Grabbing his victim, upending her, hurling her in. And his paymaster had casually referred to her as a `peasant'. Max could kill any man and eat a hearty meal soon afterwards. What Doubenkian proposed for Paula Grey filled him with loathing.
Approaching the Duke's Head, Paula, who had parked her car in a free space some distance away, noticed a shabby brown Ford parked almost outside the hotel. She also noticed the driver watching her through his rear-view mirror. He looked away quickly. He sat tensely behind the wheel, North African she thought, dressed in London clothes. She noticed two more things. In the back on the seat was a large travelling rug, and as he sat very still his engine was running. The meter showed he had been there for ten minutes.
She entered the bar and the white-coated man behind the long counter smiled at her and said, 'Good afternoon.'
At a table near the entrance a man stood up and came forward to escort her to his table. Tall, good- looking and heavily built, he was clad in a smart grey suit, white shirt and an old school tie. His smile was cheerful but she thought she detected a hint of strain in it. `I am Evelyn-Ashton,' he began. 'It is very good of you to take the time to come and meet me.' `I haven't got a lot of time,' she warned as he pulled out the chair for her. `Oh, that is quite in order,' he assured her as with unusual agility he was back in his own chair facing her. `What I have to say is hardly likely to take all week. A tipple of champagne to relax us? We were indeed in the habit of smuggling a bottle into the dormitory when I was no more than a boy at school. Indeed, yes.' `I'd sooner have coffee, thank you.'
The barman had tactfully moved to the far end of his counter to give them privacy. Max turned round and ordered. `Coffee for my guest with all the trimmings, if you please.'
Paula already knew something was wrong. Ages ago she had briefly had an Old Etonian as a friend before she escaped his predatory clutches, a man she soon found she disliked intensely. This so-called Evelyn- Ashton couldn't speak Old Etonian correctly. Near, but not near enough. While his back was turned speaking to the barman she dropped her handkerchief. Bending to retrieve it she slid the Beretta out of its holster and kept it in her right hand concealed under the table cloth, the muzzle aimed at her host's legs.
Max was in shock. Facing him was the most beautiful woman, in her thirties he guessed, and with the most entrancing smile. He'd almost decided before she appeared that he couldn't do it. Torture? Hideous. No way.
After coffee arrived a dam broke in his mind. She had to be warned. And certainly after what had happened out on the Wash. She sensed something strange in his manner, leaned forward. `Is something wrong, something bothering you?'
He opened his mouth, swallowed, then it all flooded out as he forgot to speak like an Old Etonian. `Miss Grey. Not from me anymore. I've been hired – this will be a shock – to kidnap you, dope your champagne, pretend you're ill, carry you out into that Ford outside, hide you in a travelling rug on the back seat.' He took a deep breath. 'Then torture you in a secret place, get Tweed on the phone to hear you screaming to lure him out. I can't do that to you. Please go now The barman knows a back way out. Don't use the front entrance.' `So,' Paula said coolly, 'what is the name of the Armenian?' `Don't know any Armenians.'
In a strained voice he turned round to call the barman. She chose the opportunity to slip the Beretta back inside her leg holster under her jeans.
Max explained the problem to the barman in low tones but she heard every word. `This lovely lady's husband is on his way here. Can you quickly show her out of the back way you told me about earlier?'
She laid a hand on his broad shoulder as she stood up to follow the barman. `Maybe you should get out of the country quickly. Start a new life.'
She was still alert for a more sophisticated trap when the barman led her to a concealed door out of sight at the back. `Where does this lead to?' she asked. And could you check to make sure there's no car or persons out there?' `Nothing,' he replied, returning from outside. 'No room for a car. Nobody about. You turn left, walk straight down the alley until you come to an even smaller alley. That takes you into Tiverton Street, well away from the Duke's Head.' `Thank you so much.' `Good luck.'
